The flashlight swept across what should have been an empty cavity and landed on a fully furnished motel room. Not abandoned. Not stripped bare. The bed was made with crisp white sheets. A lamp glowed softly in the corner despite the building having no power. An old suitcase sat open on a chair. It looked as though someone had stepped out only minutes before. Then I noticed the guest register lying on the nightstand. Every entry was signed into Room 107. The dates stretched back forty years.
I climbed through the opening and started reading. Hundreds of names filled the pages, but one thing made my stomach drop: not a single guest had checked out. Some entries included notes scribbled in the margins. “The door won’t open anymore.” “I can hear people in the hallway, but they can’t hear me.” “If someone finds this room, don’t stay after dark.” I was still reading when the motel office phone rang somewhere beyond the wall. The sound echoed through Room 107 as clearly as if it were inside the room itself.
The contractor shouted for me to come back, but his voice suddenly sounded distant, muffled. I turned toward the hole we’d cut through the wall—and froze. There was no hole anymore. Just solid drywall where the opening had been. Panic hit me hard. Then the lamp flickered, and I saw something written on the mirror above the dresser. The words hadn’t been there a moment earlier: “Welcome to Room 107. We’ve been waiting for you.” The next morning, the contractor swore he’d spent hours searching for me after I vanished. The strange part? According to him, I was only missing one night. According to every clock inside Room 107, I’d been there for three weeks.
